


Slow Arrow

by little_abyss



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - Various Authors, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: (not primary character), Angst, Circle Conditions, Circle of Magi, Freedom, Gen, Grey Warden Joining, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Justice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 15:00:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7443592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Throughout his life, Anders has tried to see the beauty inherent in the world.  Sometimes, that is a hard task indeed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow Arrow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [un-shit-yourself (fenix_down)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fenix_down/gifts).



> USY, you gave me this utterly gorgeous song (['Aviary'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rWl7xTz9-rU) by Ego Likeness) to work from, and... I can't help feeling like I rolled it in filthy angst and handed it back to you. But I promise that there are moments of beauty in this one, and that while the ending may not be exactly happy, it is at least hopeful.
> 
> Oh, and of course I cribbed the title for this shamelessly from Nietzsche, from his work _Human, All Too Human_ , part 149.
> 
> *crawls back into angst hole, wallows vigorously*

Look; here the curved belly of a lowercase A, the ink still jewel bright after all these years.  There, a spiked descender, plummeting well below the line of the next letter.  Beautiful, these tiny details.  Anders runs a hand lightly over the vellum, its texture worn to smoothness first with pumice, then with age.  The tome is huge, heavy, and it sits on the reading ledge like a judge.  But it too is chained - as they all are here.  He looks up from the letters in front of him, watching the faces of his fellow mages; blank masks covering their true selves.  There’s Niamh, a city-born elf, quietly copying from one tome onto a scrap of paper, her lips moving as she practices the incantations she writes.  She’d whispered such filthy strings of curses into his ear as they’d fucked in the abandoned stairwell, robes hiked up around their hips, the stone wall cold under one hand, her thighs tight around him.  Afterward, she’d dropped a note on his desk as she’d walked past.  Quietly, he’d unfolded it; there, a picture of a pretty bird, wings spread.  It had made him smile, even as he’d crushed it in his fist.  And he still remembers it, though the note itself is long since ash.  It doesn’t do to leave evidence.

 

There’s Uther, standing at the shelves, his shoulders hunched, face hidden in his cowl.  Anders clenches his jaw and swallows, noting how Uther favours his left side now, holds his right arm close to his body.  Uther never used to wear a cowl; he was proud of his looks, and in Anders opinion, rightly so.  Hair the colour of a crow’s feather, bright black eyes which danced with delight at tiny things - the way that Senior Enchanter Romhild would clutch at her breast when she got excited during a lecture, the fact that they were having breakfast which wasn’t burnt.  Long, elegant fingers, a fine shape under all the frankly, unnecessary bulk of his robes.  He was beautiful, both inside and out.  But he’d changed.

 

Anders sighs.  Rumor has it that Uther had an admirer among the Templars; and that when Uther had refused the Templar, the Templar had simply Smote him and taken what he’d wanted.  Anders watches as Uther reaches up, pulls a slim volume from the shelf and hurries away, his head bowed.  He blows a sharp breath out his nose, as if he has smelled something foul, and tries to ignore the tightening of his own gut.  What can he do?  Oh, he knows what he  _ should _ do - he should demand, he should remind his fellows that they have more power than the Templars, that if they stand together they could be rid of them, could be free again.  But… he has been here too long now not to feel the scrape and catch of the despair that permeates the very walls of this place, this fucking place.  One day though, one day he’ll… he’ll fly away, somehow.  He has to.  He feels the presence of his prison, their prison, in his very bones, and every day he is here the presence grows stronger, the insipid feeling clutching at his heart, turning it slowly to stone.  Weighing him down.

 

He looks back down at the book, its beauty paling.  He no longer sees the pretty shapes of the letters, the gilded edge of the vellum.  All he sees, rather suddenly, is its chain.

 

-|||-

 

Look; one last look at the world.  The way the light dances - the caw of the crows - the remembered smell of the flowers, still somehow clinging to him.  The noon light shines brightly through the rose window at the nave of the great hall, great ripples of light shining against the grey stone, and Anders grins to hide his nerves.  Outside, a less solemn day could hardly be found - spring sunshine floods the surrounding countryside, and the smells of mud and new growth are everywhere.  As they’d walked back, from Amaranthine to the Keep, riots of embrium grew at the roadside, the gorgeous, almost cloying scent of it thick in the air.   _ What a beautiful day to possibly die _ , Anders thinks, and feels his stomach clench at the thought of what he’s about to do.

 

Great flocks of crows caw ceaselessly in the boughs of the trees which line the hillside underneath Vigil’s Keep, and occasionally, one will land right in the doorway, hop around for a bit, and then flap off again.  He had chuckled, watching them, wondering why anything which could fly would choose to ever land.  If he had that kind of freedom… Briefly, he imagines it, the wide spread of wings, the land sliding away, far beneath him, the breadth and beauty of the world.  But here, inside, all is ritual; dour seriousness, grey stone.  He screws his mouth to the side, trying to hide his smile, but the Seneschal - what was his name again? - catches him and glares.  Anders sighs and lifts the goblet.  Its contents stink; but what is the alternative?  Be sent back with the Templars?  Anders snorts, lowers the goblet slightly, and looks once more through the open doors, into the sunshine.   _ I don’t want to leave just yet _ , he thinks to himself - part prayer, part hope.  Is this only exchanging one prison for another?   _ Well, at least they’ll have more field trips, _ he thinks, and smiles, closing his eyes at the wash of memories - cool wind against sweat-slicked skin; lying in the fragrant grass at night, watching the great wheel of the sky slowly turn.   _ Such beauty in the world _ , he thinks, and looks back into the goblet, feels as if the room is holding its breath.   _ There has to be a better way _ , he thinks, but if there is he has not found it, so he raises the goblet to his lips and drinks.

 

-|||-

 

Look; the terrible beauty of the shining steel reflecting the light.  And they have him surrounded now - is this the Warden Commander’s doing?  He does not know.  All he knows is the song heard from across the sea; not the song as the Warden’s hear it, but the song he had known ever since he’d heard Karl’s laughter.  He’d known it then, had always known it, perhaps.  And now, now he looks down at the sword which shines flatly where it reflects the light now shining from within him.  He considers the blade, somewhere from outside himself, watches with new eyes as the blood wells from his body, and he smiles.  

 

Such beauty in the world - such beauty in himself, this body, the undulations of power within him.  It was something he’d never thought of before, and then his hands,  _ their _ hands, are reaching out, grasping the hilt of the sword and pulling.  He pulls and pulls, the blade resisting, and Maker, it feels good, he pants a little and glances up, into the face of the Templar.  The man backs away, two steps, his eyes shining with disbelief, horror, and there, there is beauty too; there is sweet satisfaction.  He smiles,  _ they  _ smile, and then the blade is free, and he drops it on the ground.  The Templar scrambles backward another pace, two, and he sees the drawn swords, the way they shine in the pale light.  Then Justice is there, he feels as if everything is in him, all at once, and this, this feeling, it is everything, he feels so alive, so beautiful.  

  
One of the Templar's drops their shield and sword and turns, fleeing through the trees.  The noise sends a flock of bright-plumed birds into the air, and part of him watches them, their wings arcing and descending as if in slow motion.  But then the power is in his hands, and his mouth is moving again, but that singing, that beautiful singing, it is all in his head, the world is beautiful as Justice flows into his hands, and he rises above it all.  Finally.  This is flight; this, this is freedom.


End file.
